rewriting the norms of nuptials
by SassafrasSandals
Summary: dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness as sherlock holmes contemplates on committing fratricide at his own wedding. WARNING: far to much swearing to be an good —sherlolly valentine's day fic-a-ton 2014 —for sunhasrisen


**summary:** dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness as sherlock holmes contemplates on committing fratricide at his own wedding.

**notes:** for the 2014 sherlolly valentine's day fic-a-ton. god bless this ship.

**dedications: **to _**sunhasrisen**_, happy valentine's day babe, have a good one.

**disclaimer: **BBC Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. No infringement of copyright is intended.

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**rewriting the norms of nuptials**

* * *

Mother. Fucking. **Mycroft**.

Oh he knew it. He just fucking knew it. He couldn't ask his brother for _one_ little thing without the ass fucking shit up.

The youngest Holmes brother ground his teeth and willed his glare to pierce a hole in Mycroft's skull. Out of all the time he just had to meddle why, just why, did he have to choose today. The most important day of Sherlock's life. The day William Sherlock Scott Holmes was to wed Molly Louise Hooper.

"Now, shall we get this ceremony started?" Mycroft smiled at the couple from his place behind the podium.

Fratricide seemed like a viable option.

* * *

After waiting for so many years it wasn't strange that Molly wanted to get married as soon as possible. And because she wanted to get married so quickly, she was willing to forgo a big fancy ceremony and reception. And also because she really couldn't be bothered to organise any of it. Because honestly, what was the point when there would only be a handful of people to invite?

That was one of the many reasons that Sherlock loved her. And it was because he loved her that he has been willing to call in a favour from his dear older brother. Mycroft had simply assured his brother that everything would be dealt with. No questions asked. No need to fuss. Just let big brother Myc take care of everything.

Yeah, _sure_. But whatever suspicions and reservations Sherlock had about involving _the British Government_ swiftly dissipated when Molly kissed him and showed him just how much she _appreciated_ his thoughtful gesture. Alright _fine_. _Maybe_ have an older brother with government connections and authority wasn't _so_ bad.

.

.

.

_He was such a fool._

* * *

On the morning of the wedding everything had been going smoothly. At 11:00 am sharp a black car arrived to pick up Sherlock from Bakers Street. Mrs Hudson had left earlier to help Molly prepare. At 11:37, the car delivered Sherlock to the Diogenes Club, four minutes ahead of schedule. He was ushered into one of the private rooms, where a perfectly tailored suit awaited him. If there was one thing Sherlock could trust Mycroft with, it was a good taste in good suits. At 11:49, Sherlock was dressed and ready and ushered into the main room where the ceremony was to take place.

Eight minutes ahead of schedule.

But as he looked around the small hall, that had been decorated with white iceberg roses and drapes the exact same shade of pale green as his tie and a podium placed front and centre, and at his dad standing next to his slightly teary mother, and Mrs Hudson who was just as teary, and Sally Donovan who looked begrudgingly happy the be there, and Anderson who looked even more happy than Sherlock's mum, and Meena and Janine who were probably there more to support Molly than him, and Anthea who was hiding behind her phone but could not cover her small smile, and Mycroft who was smirking like a smug bastard and at John Watson, his best friend man, who was _fucking beaming_…Sherlock was thankful for the extra eight minutes. Because he was as nervous as a virgin in a whorehouse.

Pulse elevated, hands sweaty, slight twitch in left eye.

Conclusion: petrified as balls.

"Do try to breathe, brother mine." Mycroft whispered in his ear, "It would be a shame if Molly were to become a widow before she was even married."

Yes. Right. Calm down Sherlock. You need to **focus**.

Honestly, where was Molly when he needed a good slap?

Oh that's right, she's walking down the aisle.

_She's walking down the aisle!_

Sherlock was so busy trying to calm his nerves he hadn't even noticed the notes of _'Here Comes the Bride'_ being played. But he did manage to notice little Samantha Watson skipping down the passageway sprinkling white rose petals on the ground. Mary followed her daughter close behind, looking absolutely radiant in a pale peach dress and grinning from ear to ear. And then there was Lestrade, who was desperately trying to maintain the British façade of a stiff upper lip but failing miserably as he played the role of father-of-the-bride.

_The Bride._

Oh god, _Molly_. Sherlock forgot how to breathe. Clutching onto Lestrade's arm, Molly soon no longer to be Hooper wore the traditional white dress and flowers in her long, cascading hair and a smile that made Sherlock's heart clench, on her painted pink lips.

By the time Molly reached him, Sherlock's hands were shaking and all attempts to regain any sense of self control were tossed out the window, because how could he _ever_ when she looked like _that_?

"Hi." Molly whispered, her voice just as shaky as he was feeling.

Sherlock swallowed the rather massive lump in his throat, "Hello."

A not so subtle cough drew the couple's attention away from each other. Mycroft Holmes stood behind the podium with a smile that promised no good for his little brother.

"Now, shall we get this ceremony started?" Mycroft practically fucking _sang_.

"What do you think you are doing?" Sherlock hissed.

"Officiating the ceremony of course."

Oh, _of course_. In his nervous state, the consulting detective had failed to notice that there was no priest or minister or ordained official present. Therefore leaving the person with the authority to wed the couple being Mycroft _'the British Government' _Holmes.

Was it frowned upon to commit murder at a wedding? Normally Sherlock would think the answer would be 'yes', but after the incident at John and Mary's wedding, he wasn't so sure anymore.

With one more slimy grin to his brother, Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke, "Do you Molly Louise Hooper take William Sherlock Scott Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Molly smiled, but before she was able to give her answer she was _very rudely_ cut off.

"Do you take this _sociopath_ who is incapable of love to be the man you will dedicate the rest of your life to?" Mycroft continued.

The colour drained from Sherlock's face. _What the actual fuck?_

From behind him Sherlock could hear muttering from the small crowd, Mummy groaning and Mrs Hudson tutting and the distinct sound of John slapping a hand on his forehead.

"-to be with this selfish, egotistical, know-it-all, self-absorbed _ponce_ until your last dying breath?-"

Was this asshole still going?

"-to be placed second in his life because he deems his work more important than you?-"

Now hang on, wait a minute. Molly _was_ his work. They spent more time together at the morgue than at home, and she even said that she fully supported his job and didn't want him to stop being a detective.

"- to be constantly used to gain access to the hospital and various body parts and have your career placed in jeopardy because he wants to blow up a liver for shits and giggles?-"

Sherlock gaped. _Mycroft_ was the one who had secured his access to the morgue. And he would _never_ let Molly lose her job.

"-to cry for hours as you wait weeks without hearing from him when he goes gallivanting on some case to who knows where? To sit alone at home, wondering if he's dead or alive or being tortured in some underground cave in Uzbekistan?-"

Sherlock was going to strangle his brother with his own tie.

"-to have to have to struggle to make ends meet and live on the bare minimums because his so called job barely scrapes in any money at all and the money he does make, he fritters away on drugs, booze and various under-age prostitutes?-"

His job pays very well, thank you very much and Molly's a fucking _doctor_. And he's been clean and sober for five years now thanks to the help of the woman beside him. And _prostitutes?! _He would never!

"-to cry yourself to sleep because he's gone and left you again after being summoned by a simple text from _The Woman_, signalled by the throaty erotic moan of a text alert that you hear every single night? To having him come stumbling home the next morning clothes dishevelled, lipstick smeared on his cheek, and smelling like cheap wine and sex and _her_?-"

No. Absolutely fucking not. Sherlock had long ago deleted Adler's number _and _her text alert. Molly was the only woman, the only _person_ for him and he would never _ever_ cheat on her. **Ever**.

"-to take all his insults and complaints and abuse and deal with his foul moods that will become a more and more common occurrence and suffer silently through his criticism of your cooking, cleaning, hair, clothing, weight, job, sex and personality, every single day for the rest of your life?"

That was it. Mycroft was **dead**. So fucking dead. Sherlock was going to-

"I do."

_Say what?_

Sherlock turned to the woman beside him. Molly Hooper, no, Molly motherfucking **Holmes**, cool as a cucumber and smiling pleasantly at her brother-in-law.

Mycroft blinked, "Are you certain Molly? There's no going back after this?"

Her smile only grew, "Yep."

_Hah. Take that, asshole._

The elder Holmes brother shrugged, "Very well," he turned to his brother, a malevolent glint flashed in his eyes briefly, "Do you William Sherlock-"

"**I DO!**"

Mycroft tisked, "Always so impatient, brother mine. Do you William Sherlock Scott Holmes take Molly Louise Hooper to be your lawfully wedded wife, knowing full well that you do not deserve anyone half, no no, _one quarter_ as good as she is?-"

Sherlock, was once again, speechless. Whose fucking side are you even on Mycroft?

"-Do you promise to put her above everything in your life, including the work? Do you promise to support her in her career and to respect her as the brilliant, capable and intelligent woman that she is? To prove to her every single day for the rest of your life that you care and cherish her more than anything else in the world. Do you promise to make her breakfast, lunch and dinner, to clean up the dishes and do the dusting and the laundry because she's too tired to after pulling three back-to-back shifts? To not only be a reliable and caring husband but also a father to your children and to teach them about science and how to deduce and create their own mind palaces? To take them to school and help them with their homework and teach them how to ride their bikes and to chase away any unworthy boys who come after your daughter and to teach your son to be the gentleman that you never were? To grow old with your family and retire to a cottage in the country side and take up beekeeping and still show the woman beside you how much you still care for her even after all those long years? Do you think you are capable of living a domestic life with your family? Do you think you are capable of giving into sentiment? Do you think you are _worthy_ of this woman?"

.

.

.

_Well damn._

Seconds passed and the brothers stared at each other. Then slowly but surely, Sherlock nodded. "I do."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Oh? And why is that, brother mine?"

When Sherlock turned and gazed into the hazel eyes of the woman he was about to make his wife, he found that the answer was simple. He smiled softly, "Because I am in love with her."

And that was good enough for Mycroft. Smiling a true genuine smile, he spoke, "By the power vested in me by the British Government and the Queen of England, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day, love! I hope you enjoy this fic and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Kisses,

sassafrassandals


End file.
